But swift I pass, and distant regions trace,
For moon-beams silver all the eastern cloud; And day's last crimson vestige fades apace Down the steep west I fly from midnight's shroud.
COME, Evening, once again, season of peace; Return, sweet Evening, and continue long! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,
With matron steps slow moving, while the Night Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ'd In letting fall the curtain of repose
On bird and beast; the other charg'd, for man, With sweet oblivion of the cares of day; Not sumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid, Like homely-featur'd Night, of clustering gems. A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow, Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine Not less than her's; not worn, indeed, on high, With ostentatious pageantry, but set With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, Resplendent less, but of an ample round.
HARK! 'tis the twanging horn, o'er yonder bridge, That with its wearisome, but needful length Bestrides the peaceful flood, in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face, reflected bright. He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spatter'd boots, strapt waist, and ragged locks; News from all nations, lumbering at his back. True to his charge, the close pack'd load behind, Yet careless what he brings, his one concern Is to conduct it to the destined inn,
And having dropt the expected bag, pass on.. He whistles as he goes; light-hearted wretch, Cold, and yet cheerful; messenger of grief, Perhaps, to thousands, and of joy to some; To him, indifferent, whether grief or joy. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks; Births, deaths and marriages, epistles wet With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks, Fast as the periods from his fluent quill;
Or charg'd with amorous sighs of absent swains, Or nymphs responsive, equally affect
His horse and him, unconscious of them all.
PROSPECT OF THE WORLD FROM THE RETREAT
'Tis pleasant through the loopholes of retreat To peep at such a world; to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd; To hear the roar she sends through all her gates, At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on the uninjur'd ear. Thus sitting, and surveying thus, at ease, The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced To some secure, and more than mortal height, That liberates and exempts me from them all. It turns submitted to my view, turns round With all its generations. I behold
The sound of war reaches me;
I mourn the pride
Has lost its terrors ere it Grieves, but alarms me not. And avarice that make man a wolf to man; Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats, By which he speaks the language of his heart; And sigh, but never tremble, at the sound. He travels and expatiates; as the bee From flow'r to flow'r, so he from land to land; The manners, customs, policy of all,
Pay contribution to the store he gleans. He sucks intelligence in every clime, And spreads the honey of his deep research At his return; a rich repast for me.
He travels, and I too: I tread his deck, Ascend his topmast, through his peeping eyes, Discover countries; with a kindred heart, Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes; While fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
THE PLEASANT EVENING.
DELIGHTFUL is that clear calm sky, With that bright silvery lamp on high. Delightful is this smooth green ground, With varied shadows dark'ning round. Quick twinkling lustre decks the tide, And cheerful radiance gently falls, On that white town and castle walls, That crown the winding river's farther side.
And now along the echoing hills,
The night-bird's strain, melodious trills; And now the dewy dale along, Soft flows the rustic's merry song. And now wide o'er the water borne, The city's mingled murmur swells, And lively change of distant bells, And varied warbling of the sweet-ton'd horn.
Their influence calms the ruffled soul, And passions feel their strong controul; While fancy's eye as wild it strays, A scene of happiness surveys.
Through all the various walks of life, No natural ill, or moral, sees;
Nor famine feels, nor dire disease, Nor war's infernal, unrelenting strife. For them, behold a heavenly band, Their white wings waving o'er the land; Sweet Innocence, a cherub fair, And Peace, and Joy, a sister pair ; And kindness mild, their sister grace, Whose brow serene Complacence wears, Whose hand her liberal bounty bears O'er the vast range of animated space.
Oн talk not of parting, oh no! let us meet And enjoy the day's sun-shine together; For the last rays of evening, though sad, shall be sweet,
And promise still lovelier weather.
Though the valley beneath us be dimmed with tears, Heaven's bow gilds the mountains which bound it: Under yon sunny hill, Hope a sweet cottage rears, And scatters Love's roses around it.
The pure stream of contentment glides silently by, Softly fann'd by the zephyrs of pleasure;
On its banks, the bright hours their own images
And Benevolence labours at leisure.
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